


a grief that can't be spoken

by scrubbadub



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bold of you to assume, Common Cold, Delirium, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, LIKE yeah okay grant's capable of many things, M/M, Modern Era, Sickfic, enjoltaire - Freeform, taking care of himself is one of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26015182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: Grantaire falls ill after a rough encounter with Enjolras. Fearing he was too harsh, Enjolras goes to apologize, or at the very least bring his words down to manageable and not scathing - but instead he finds Grantaire, burning up, passed out on his couch. It’s not the guilt that makes him stay to take care of his friend, but maybe Grantaire will entertain the notion for as long as he can.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 107





	a grief that can't be spoken

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my spectacular beta reader, insertsomethingwitty. This would be FAR more rambly without your input, lol.

There is something painful in the way that Enjolras glares at him, and Grantaire thinks, distantly, that this might be the point in which he has decided he is no more worth the effort than any other acquaintance.

He’d woken up feeling off and taken a shot of liquid courage to help steady himself. When that’d failed to perk him up properly mid-day, when he’d still stumbled on his way to the bathroom and failed to catch his balance, it occurred to him: whatever was going around campus, it was highly likely he had caught it. He doesn’t enjoy being sick, nor did he want to entertain the idea of becoming ill. So instead he brushed the thought off, popped a few ibuprofen and Tylenol just in case his fears came to fruition, and decided no, he is not sick, not at all, he is just hungover.

Regardless of whether or not he drank enough last night to constitute using that excuse doesn’t apply, of course.

That is how he finds himself in mid argument with Enjolras, pushing button after button, seeing how far he can press until he’s finally cast aside; he finds out exactly where the man’s limit is when Enjolras, tight-faced and furious, tells him to leave. It is resigned and disappointed and _angry_ , the way he says it, all elegance and poise, and he feels as though he has lost something important.

So he does. Not without slamming the final nail into his proverbial coffin, no, he would be remiss to forget doing so. “Of course, oh grand, wondrous leader, who am I to fucking, to _question_ your word? I’ll leave. You don’t have to _worry_ about whether or not I’ll stain your goddamned precious group’s doorstep ever again.”

The wind outside is cold and biting, but he deserves it, so he walks. It drives itself deep into his bones. He deliberately forces himself to ignore how cruel it curls, and when he finally crosses the threshold of his apartment doorway and into the damning warmth of his home, he cannot bear to shake free from the ice’s grip. It is his curse, he decides, to be no more than an icicle hanging upon the windowpane, finally shaken free from his perch by those he taunts. It is his purpose, to be cold.

He is no better than a leech, it feels like. Shucking his jacket, he lets it fall to the floor and closes the door behind him, hesitantly, as if it were an afterthought. 

He forgot what exactly his plan was once he got home, but he does not forget the feeling of tears on his face, so when he starts to cry, bitter, resigned tears, warm trails on ice, he lets himself. He weeps, because surely, _surely_ there is something left for him other than this cruelty? Surely he is meant for something more than sickness and lashing out?

He looks at the television. There’s something enticing about losing himself to trash TV. It won’t fix things. Nothing will fix things, nor will it help the ache behind his eyes. It is a distraction, though, and one sorely needed.

Swaying on his feet, he wipes his eyes and tries to clean it free from tears, sniffing away snot and regret. Treading carefully towards the kitchen, he rests his elbows on the granite countertop haphazardly. There is no rest for the weary. There is nothing left for him but misery and resignation, that is how it has always been.

He lingers for a few minutes before he shoves himself upright, pulls a pack of beer out from the fridge, grabs a box of Pop-Tarts, and shuffles back over to the couch. 

There are always blankets resting on the couch for him. He keeps them there in case he falls asleep, be it because of a binge, TV, work-- specifics do not lend themselves well to him in the moment. The first blanket is one that Enjolras gave him. He remembers the night vividly. He sways to an invisible breeze, remembers the feeling of Enjolras’ hands on his own as he was gifted the orange, fuzzy, unattractive beast of a quilt, something about _new friends and new beginnings_ , how he was so _happy_ to have a new member of the Musain--

He’s crying again. Thumping down heavily onto the couch, he sets the items in his arms down onto the coffee table carelessly and pulls the blanket down, holding it close. It’s too cold in his apartment. Rationally, he thinks he has a fever, has had one since this morning, let it get so high he can notice - not so hopefully manageable - but he lets the thought drift away and focuses instead on the blanket.

It’s soft, worn at the edges with love, and there’s a stitch there at the corner, initials. It is a gift, made with thought, made with remembrance, and it surely is all he has left of the man he loves now. He was never deserving of this kind of kindness.

He’s sobbing, he realizes this, ugly, gasping heaves, and if he buries his face into the blanket as if it will cure the lonely ache in his chest and the chill in his bones, he pays it no mind. Wrapping himself in tangerine fuzz, he prays that it will do some good other than shielding him from the day, and stays like that for longer than he can fathom.

At some point, he stops crying. He doesn't know when, perhaps when he finally turns on the TV and the Kardashians confuse him long enough to distract, but he does, and he idly wipes his face dry after. He blinks fully, trying to make sense of his thoughts. There are Pop-Tarts on the coffee table.

He should eat those. At least one, that seems like a good idea. Joly would tell him he needs to eat, stay hydrated.

Ah. Yes, he can't _talk_ to Joly, now, Joly is a part of the ABC, and he is no longer with them.

Instead of doing the responsible thing, he wraps the blanket around himself tighter and reclines on the couch, sighing. There is a hazy melancholy gripping him, one half fever and one half bitter, resigned acceptance, self hatred mixed into one dismal feeling, and he fails to break the waters of it's sea. He drifts, and when he blinks, the sun is at a different angle in his window.

When did it get to be evening? How strange.

He's half tempted to get up from the couch and draw the blinds, but he is _tired_ beyond just being ill, and he cannot exert the energy to do so. He closes his eyes instead.

There are flashes of dreams as he drifts off fully into slumber - vicious, terrible things. He is on a boat, at some point. It is raining and the boat rocks and it is only him there to hold the ropes. He calls out for help, but he only hears seagulls, mocking and flying high, and there is _so much rain._ The boat topples and so does he.

Thunder pounds even underneath the waves. It's strange, though, the thunder sounds more like knocking the more time passes--

" _Grantaire, open the door, goddamn it!_ " It's _Enjolras._

He startles upright and the blanket falls loose around him. His head aches when he does this. Blinking, there is a moment that passes, and Enjolras is standing in front of him.

Enjolras speaks. "Are you all right? I- no, actually, don't answer that, let me feel your forehead real quick. No, _sit down_." He'd gone to stand, to properly greet Enjolras, but he's shoved back down gently. There's a hand on his forehead, quickly removed.

"How did you- I didn't. Leave a key. Hello?" His words aren't quite flowing right. Damn.

With a sigh, Enjolras tucks the blanket back around him. "You gave me a key to your apartment two months ago. You drank an entire bottle of cognac after making a bet with Bossuet. We all knew it was an excuse to get us to all drink and loosen up, no, _damn it_ stay seated Grantaire, I am _trying_ to help."

"Why're you here?" He hadn't meant to say that aloud, but it's there, now. Out in the open. His thought to mouth filter has gone. Where did his Pop-Tarts go? "Did you steal my food?"

"What- no? No, do you… Ah. You mean the Pop-Tarts?" Yes, he does. He tries to get up and move past Enjolras to grab them. They're S'mores, he likes that flavor. " _Stop it._ Fuck’s sake, Grantaire, you're being ridiculous."

"Oh. _Oh_ , ridiculous, am I? I, _me_ , ridiculous?" He shouldn't be yelling, he knows this. He shouldn't be blaming Enjolras for getting frustrated. "I was under the impression that, that you kicked me out! So I left! Why are _you_ here in _my_ apartment--" He stops mid sentence. "... How did you find my apartment?"

"Google Maps," Enjolras is quick to respond.

"Oh." Grantaire thinks. It takes a while. "... When did Google get… fuck Google. Fuck Google, I don't want to talk about Google."

With a sigh, Enjolras leverages him back upright from where he'd been leaning. When he's done rubbing at his face, he's got pills being shoved into one of his hands. "Take these," Enjolras says, "You've a nasty fever and I've no doubt in my mind you've made yourself worse by getting as worked up as you are. Grantaire, why didn't you _tell us_ you were sick? I would have sent you home to rest. You don't need to hurt yourself to make our meetings."

He shakes his head. "Not sick."

"I'm as likely to believe that as I am to vote for the Thenardiers as senators. They're running this year- they’re not important." No, he thinks that's important, and he opens his mouth to retort, grasping for the right words.

"... I don't like pills." He grumbles.

"I don't care. Take them. Ibuprofen for the headache, and don't lie to me, you've got that pinched look to your face that you always get when it's too bright or too loud. Tylenol for the fever. I've got some water, here, too, drink." Enjolras is being too kind to him, he thinks. 

"You're being stupidly nice. Stop it." He swallows the pills half out of spite, and half because Grantaire cares about his own pride. Stupid nice Enjolras. Stupid, stupid Enjolras with his golden hair and his doting love for family and friends. Stupid love of his life.

"I'm being a good friend, Grantaire, it's not being nice. Come on. You'd do the same for us." What Enjolras says makes sense conceptually, but he's not processing things well at the moment, so he sits on his response until he forgets what he was going to say.

He blinks again, and the TV is turned on a different channel. There's been another blanket draped over him and he can hear the sink running in the kitchen. "... When'd you get in there?"

"Thirty minutes ago, 'R, you took a nap. Continue doing so." Enjolras is raising his voice, but it's to be heard, not to argue. He lets it slide.

"Maybe I don't want to take a nap." He sniffs. There's still an uncomfortable, throbbing headache pounding behind his nose, and he's closed his eyes before he truly realizes it. He shakes himself back awake. Enjolras is setting what looks like chicken soup down in front of him.

"Your cupboards are _painfully_ empty, you need to go shopping. God forbid you actually eat food for once." Enjolras has this look on his face that he gets when he's deep in thought, and Grantaire can't take his eyes off of it. What's he thinking about, he wonders. What's going on?

"Your eyes are very blue." Not… _quite_ what he wanted to say, but also true.

Enjolras blinks, then chuckles, offering a little half-smile. "Yes, I'm sure they are, and you're just slightly delirious. Eat this, please."

He thinks. "... I don't want to. Smells like shit."

Enjolras frowns again before replying. "Again, I don't particularly care. Combeferre is bringing Joly over to check on you, I don't like how high your temperature is."

"You're not my fucking mom. Stop acting like it." There's that ball of self-sabotage in him again, uncurling from where it'd hidden itself, lashing out yet again. There's no filter to stop himself from making the same mistake as before.

Frustrated, Enjolras rubs at his face. "Well, apparently, you can't fucking take care of yourself, Grantaire, so someone has to step in. I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier in the Musain, okay?" Enjolras' acquiescence make him pause.

"Wait, why? What- I was a dick. I yelled at you."

"Yes," Enjolras begins, and straightens Grantaire up from his slouch once more. "And you are also sick, and most likely have been all day, which I neglected to realize until Gavroche pointed out that you'd left your wallet. That, and you were behaving erratically."

"Fuck you. No, I wasn't." He tries to stand up and is pushed back down. "Stop _touching_ me, goddamn it, I'm not, stop treating me like a fucking _charity case._ "

With that said, Enjolras finally draws away. He looks more confused than hurt, if anything. "... Is that what you think you are to us? A charity case?"

"Well," Oh, this has been building for a while. "Why else would you have me, an alcoholic asshole who flakes every chance he can get, why'd you let me stay unless you, you all wanted to say, oh, look at what we did, look at what the fucking cat dragged in, we gave him a bath! I don't _need_ a bath! Stop- fucking-- treating me like a _child!_ "

"Grantaire--" 

He cuts Enjolras off. "No! No, you, you listen to me." He stands up and Enjolras takes a step back, and he cannot tell if it is fury or hurt flashing on his face. "You listen to me, Enjolras, you and your stupid fucking, your _impossibly wonderful face_ \--"

Enjolras blanches. "I-- what?? Excuse me--"

"You think I deserve, what, friends like these?! Like _you?_ No! No, so, so fuck you, fuck the ABC, fuck, I…. I think I'm gonna vomit." The wave of nausea hits him like a freight train and he has no real way to prepare for it before sitting back down on the couch with a thud, using the back of it to stabilize himself. Enjolras nods and helps him back up, carefully, then leads him to the bathroom, pausing at the doorway as Grantaire makes a beeline for the toilet.

He doesn't remember when Enjolras started helping him stay upright, but he is, and quietly, he mutters a "thank you".

It's a while before Enjolras speaks. "... You know we don't have you around for pity. Right?"

"Fuckin' feels like it. Feel like shit." He spits the last remaining dregs of stomach acid out of his mouth and into the toilet bowl, wiping his face dry.

"Physical ailment aside, Grant, you're our friend. You're frustrating and loud and yes, I grow _very_ exasperated with your constant drinking, and it _worries_ me, but I would not be your friend if I didn't also enjoy your company." Grantaire stills, or goes as still as he can. He can’t stop shivering.

"... Why."

Enjolras takes his time to answer, and at first, Grantaire thinks it's because he has no answer at all, that he’s being proven right. He's leveraged up slowly, then carefully walked out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom, to softer linen and a bed that tempts. He's so tired. He doesn't want to leave the waking world, not yet, he can still feel the spray of rain against his back if he concentrates, but sleep taunts him. "Because, Grantaire, I care for you. You are kind, and sweet, and though you may not see it, your presence brings us joy. You are not a hindrance. Lay down, all right?"

He doesn't have the energy to try and keep arguing his point and instead slides down onto the bed, further into the mattress until his head hits the pillow, then blinks, again. Enjolras is gone. There's noise in the other room and the light has been dimmed, so he hasn't _been left_ , so to speak, just… temporarily abandoned for apartment… things. He can’t think of the right phrase.

He lets himself drift again. There is the sensation of someone's hand on his forehead again and it rouses him. 

The affronted half-scoff that comes from him smacking at the hand currently tilting his chin upwards isn’t Enjolras, though. Opening his eyes with a start, he moves back, only to groan, closing them again. He caught a glimpse when he'd opened them. Ah, so that’s who it is. "And to what do I owe the pleasure, then, Jollly?"

There's something cold against his chest momentarily and Joly speaks after removing it. "Well, it’s as good a sign as any that you’re awake, but do know that you're an ass for scaring us like that. I was called down after work to make sure you hadn't killed yourself with your stubbornness." Opening his eyes, Grantaire attempts a glower. Judging from Joly's unimpressed look, it's more of a pout.

"I had it handled. Enjolras merely…" Waving his hand, he flounders, reaching for the right phrase. His mind fails him. Traitorous thing.

"Arrived on your doorstep, ready to apologize for snapping at you after you pushed him too far in the throes of fevered self loathing, and found you passed out on your couch burning up? You peaked at 104, by the way. It's been a day. _So much as think_ about getting out of this bed and straining yourself and I'll personally deliver you to the clinic myself. It's the same as what's going around, that nasty flu, but you exacerbated it." Standing back up from where he'd been seated on the side of the bed, Joly pats his shoulder, tension leaving his face some. "You're allowed the kindness of asking for help, Grantaire."

That hot coal of anger still burns deep inside of his chest, but for now, he tucks it away, places it elsewhere so he might warm himself from the chill other ways. "... I scared you that badly, did I? Ah- I do hope I didn't get Enjolras sick."

Enjolras, from the other room, laughs, and yells his response. "I have the constitution of an alligator, good luck!"

Joly scowls. "Tell that to _December_ , you boastful fool! Do not tempt fate!"

That, of course, forces Enjolras to poke his head into the bedroom, expression affronted. "You take that _back_ , it was just a cold and we _know_ it!"

As Joly and Enjolras bicker in good nature, as he's being given soup and an ice pack and being fussed over, there is a seed of gratitude sprouting within him. He does not feel good, still, nauseous and chilled and too bright around the edges, but when Enjolras asks in passing, later, if the rest of the Musain can visit, well. He does not say _no._

Perhaps he can allow himself that.


End file.
